Intensified by the Imagination and Prolonged by a Hundred Echoes
by eggsaladstain
Summary: He knows what it's like to lose a sister, and it's not a pain he wants for anyone else, especially not her.


_For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes._

Milan Kundera

 _..._

The day his mother walks out of his life, Jughead Jones becomes friends with Betty Cooper. They have known each other for as long as they can remember in that charming, small-town way, but they have never been more than acquaintances, two people whose only point in common is that they both happen to be friends with Archie Andrews.

He feels a general positivity towards her, because it would be hard not to – the girl is all smiles and eyes – and they say hi to each other in school and are polite when they see each other in town.

For the majority of his childhood, that's about the extent of their relationship.

But then his mother leaves, and Jellybean leaves, and he stays.

And everything changes.

…

 _Are you sure you want to do this, Juggie?_ His mother's hand is warm against his cheek, and even now, almost a decade later, he still remembers the smell of her perfume, sweet and gentle, before the scent disintegrates, along with the rest of his memories of her.

 _You don't have to stay_ , she murmurs, her voice soft but fierce. _You don't owe your father anything_.

But he does. Because he is a Jones and this is what Jones men do, they sacrifice and they stay, even when they don't want to. Especially when they don't want to. He is a Jones, and he owes his father everything, starting with his name.

 _I'm sorry_ , he says, _but I can't leave._ The bags are heavy but he takes them to the car anyways, struggling under the weight of all that he is about to lose.

 _I'm sorry,_ he whispers, hugging his mother and his sister for what may very well be the last time _. I'm sorry, but this is home._

He is still a boy, still young, too young to know any better.

Too young to know that home is not a place, not a house, not a town. Home is the people you love, a mother, a sister. Home is family.

And he just watched his walk out the door.

…

After they're gone, he goes to the drive-in.

It looks so different during the day – empty, but hopeful, like it knows that good things are waiting once the sun goes down and the stars come out. The ground is cold, but dry, and he walks up to the screen and sits down against the fence.

Then, he puts his head on his arms and cries.

For his mother, who only saw one way out. For his sister, who would never grow up with a big brother watching over her. And for himself, for being too afraid to leave.

He cries so long and so hard that he doesn't hear the footsteps come towards him, or the quiet swish of a ponytail, or the soft crinkle of a paper bag.

What he hears, all of a sudden, out of the blue, is _Hi Jughead._

His heart leaps into his throat and he stands up so fast he trips over himself, knocking his beanie off his head and hitting his elbow hard on the ground. He looks up, startled and confused, and sees bright blue eyes staring down at him, wide with concern.

It's the last person he ever thought he'd see – Betty Cooper.

She smiles apologetically, picking up his beanie and dusting it off against her jacket. _Sorry for scaring you_ , she says, thrusting both arms towards him – his hat in one hand, and a bag from Pop's in the other.

She doesn't ask him why he was crying, she doesn't say anything at all, just sits down next to him and starts talking about how she's sure there's a secret ingredient in Pop's burgers and fries, about how retro the music selection is, and about how she loves the milkshakes most of all.

Slowly, he finds himself laughing, because he's pretty sure the secret ingredient is just a ridiculous amount of salt, and the retro music is a staple to the American diner, and the milkshakes are even better if you eat them with fries.

And that's the day Jughead Jones and Betty Cooper become friends.

…

A few years later, after he moves out and gets a job at the drive-in, she visits him one night after the movie ends. She has a paper bag in her hand again, and they sit outside on the empty lawn, shoulder to shoulder, taking turns at the french fries and looking at the stars.

The moon shines a light on her face and he realizes for the first time that she is beautiful.

 _Juggie_ , she says, never taking her eyes off the sky. _You're staring_.

He chuckles quietly, handing her the last fry. _I was just thinking._

 _Just say it, Jughead,_ she sighs, taking it from him and inspecting it like it's the most important thing in the world. After a moment, satisfied, she snaps it in two and turns to him, offering him half.

There's a small smile on her lips, and she has half a fry in each hand, and he realizes for the second time that night that she is beautiful.

He bites it out of her hand, savoring the sound of her laugh, and they lapse into a comfortable silence under the constellations twinkling in the night.

 _You knew, didn't you_ , he says after a moment. _That day at the drive in, when we were kids. You already knew about my mom when you found me._

Her face turns somber almost immediately. _Yeah_ , she whispers, _I knew_. _I was at Pop's when she stopped by with Jellybean. She looked so sad and she only ordered one burger. And no fries_. She places her head gently on his shoulder. _I'm so sorry, Juggie_. _That must have been so hard for you_.

He swallows the lump in his throat. He's never talked about it before, he's never talked about how it made him feel, but here, in the dark, under the light of the moon, he feels like he finally can.

 _It was_ , he replies, looking down at the lashes against her cheeks, and her breath suspended in the cold night air. _But thank you. For being there that day._

She lifts her head and leans in close, pressing a kiss to his cheek, so soft it's like a whisper.

 _You'll always have me_.

…

The Sisters of Quiet Mercy is the kind of place Jughead will go out of his way to avoid, but Betty is on a quest for the truth and for her sister, two things Jughead has a deep respect for, so he hops on the bus and follows her into the abyss.

While the Cooper sisters reunite, he wanders the halls. It feels like despair and decay, and he imagines all the stories within these walls, all the memories, good and bad, all the voices, big and small.

But it's just one voice he hears. Polly's, distraught and screaming, as she reaches for her sister, as the orderlies tear her away. Her cries echo down the corridor, getting quieter and quieter, until the only sounds he can hear are Betty's choked sobs and the heavy breaths he realizes are coming from himself.

When he sees this haunted family before him, when he sees these sisters torn apart, he feels something shatter inside him, something he tried so hard to repair, something buried deep.

Memories of a gentle perfume, a gap-toothed smile.

And all of a sudden, he is a child again, watching his own mother and sister walk out the door, realizing that time has not eased these wounds, that it only created a scar.

It hurts.

It never stopped hurting.

…

Alice Cooper marches Betty home, a corrections officer escorting a prisoner to solitary confinement. Jughead barely gets the chance to say goodbye before the door is slammed shut in his face and he is left outside, over the threshold, so close and yet so far.

The next day, he takes a walk, down through the woods, all the way to the lake, wondering how it all went wrong, wondering if it could ever have been different.

But then he climbs up the ladder and into her room, listening to her fears and realizing that they're the same fears as his. And he tells himself that this time, it will be different.

This time, it will be better.

 _We're not our parents, Betty. We're not our families_ , he murmurs, and there's so much more that he wants to say.

That he knows how she feels.  
That he hates seeing her hurt.  
That she's brave and strong.  
That she's not alone.

 _Also,_ he starts, but then he looks at her – at the crinkle between her brows, at the turn of her mouth, at this girl he's known most of his life, a life that's better because she's in it – and he can't think, he can't speak.

The words are caught in his throat and he's frozen in her eyes, but then she smiles. And he's free.

His hands are on her face before he realizes what he's doing, and her lips are soft against his. He kisses her with all the words he wants to say, with whispers, and with promises.

And when they break apart, she smiles at him like she can hear.

What he tells her is this:

 _You'll always have me._

…

 _Fin_


End file.
